From my journal at Artestudio Ginestrelle:
Sept 7, 2015
The intention keeps shifting, from sketching the flora to capturing pictures of rock colors, the velvet landscape, the conversation with fellow artists about painting concepts. They are the ideas to develop. We are all under the spell of St. Francis. It is not hard to imagine him sleeping on the pastel hued rocks and stones of Mount Subasio. The town beckons with history and art, but the mountain may tell the story i most want to learn, of what got into this young monk that he shed his wealthy and priviledged life to embrace the divine in nature. As I walk along this whitewashed trail, the mind flits in its usual way, but finds no landing spot for long, like the pairs of butterflies that lead me down the path. I follow them with a nameless longing while pulling my mental baggage along behind me. Then a whiff of some fruit, flower, or foliage carries me off, and it seems irrelevant to sketch or make any art other than breathing.
The art was everywhere. It could be found in the compost heap. . .
. . .and in the storage of wood for the winter. . .
. . .in the many outdoor tables to be used by artists. . .
. . .in the traces left by former residences in creative homage. . .
. . .and in the materials left in the studio for inspiration or use in new projects. . .
. . .and in the new creations (like these scarves by Nancy Ulliman) that reflected the textures and shapes and colors of the mountain. . .